


Of Monsters and Men

by tcmbraider



Category: Tomb Raider (Video Games)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-03-29 14:42:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13929219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tcmbraider/pseuds/tcmbraider
Summary: A drabble collection based on the Classic ! Tomb Raider games. New drabbles will be posted regularly.





	1. Introduction

1.  **Introduction**

A pang of agony shot through her shoulder as she collided with the wall; its tiled surface fracturing and shattering upon impact, sending a small shower of terracotta shards flying to the ground just beside her feet. Gunderson's men had yet to cease shouting harsh commands at each other, though their voices sounded muffled and distorted from behind three doors and a lengthy corridor — almost as if her tired, panicked brain was attempting to shut them out entirely. Trying, and  _failing_.

Staggering forward, Lara braced her forearm against the wall and righted herself just in time to catch a glimpse of five sharpened blades glistening in the dim lights of the staircase, their rounded edges almost seeming to dance as their owner shifted in his perch. Yet it wasn't their eerie shimmer that instantly caught her attention, but rather the nonchalant smirk plastered onto the stranger's lips; the way he leaned forward and huffed a mocking laugh as she made to approach him.

—the way he grinned and leaned backward, letting himself fall to his presumed death — and making a point of bolting the second he'd hit the ground and scrambled to his feet.

Gods, she already detested this rotten excuse for a man.

Taking the steps by twos and threes, Lara rushed to keep up with his brisk pace; pointedly ignoring the searing pain in her ankle as she leapt over the last landing and tumbled to the floor below, using her hand to push herself forward. He was faster than a man his size  _should_ have been, so much was certain, and clearly holding himself back if the slight tilt of his head was any indication. Which, apparently, didn't keep him from disappearing into thin air the moment he'd exited the Louvre, leaving Lara to stumble to a halt just outside the building.

If it hadn't been for the loss of her twin pistols, perhaps she would have chastised herself for not getting enough sleep; for hallucinating at a time when she clearly needed all her wits. But they were undeniably gone, along with the Painting she'd fought like hell to retrieve and the measly amount of Magnum clips she'd still had. And, to make matters even worse, the thundering footsteps approaching her from behind certainly didn't bode well either.

Risking a single glance over her shoulder, Lara ran. Past the inner courtyard, through a backstreet, swerving toward the right — until someone grabbed her by the waist and slammed her so hard against the brick wall beside him, she could  _feel_  it knocking the air clean out of her lungs.

"Keep your mouth shut," was all he said, his sapphire-eyes scanning her face a second too long before he reached out to rid her of her backpack and tugged the strip of her already disheveled shirt down, his hands efficient and without the faintest spark of passion as he nudged her chin up and took a single step forward. The smirk she'd loathed before had vanished from his face, making him look much older, much more serious than she'd imagined him to be. Though he was still undeniably, infuriatingly handsome. And still a raging pain in her ass.

"Gunderson's men are looking for you." His matter-of-fact approach didn't sit well with Lara at this point, though she forced herself to nod nonetheless — and, thanks to her spinning head, regretted it almost instantly.  _Great._  "I'd suggest you try not to be your rotten brat-self for a minute."

It was all the explanation he was willing to part with before taking another step toward her, trapping her between the warmth of his body and the unforgiving coldness of the wall behind her. His hands found hers on their own accord shortly after, his fingers weaving through hers as if it were the most natural thing for him; and before she could do so much as protest or spew profanities in his general direction, his lips had found hers in a harsh, impatient kiss.

_Oh, gods._

He didn't seem to pay any heed to her half-hearted attempts to kick him. It wasn't as though she truly  _fought_  him, in any case — not when her head felt so light that she could have sworn she'd double over any second, and most definitely not considering the way her hands clasped around his, almost as though she was holding on to him, on to the solace he offered her. The minute of absolute stillness she'd longed for since Werner's death.

* * *

It didn't take long for the mercenaries to find them, although the stranger hardly even seemed to notice their arrival — or he'd simply chosen to ignore them entirely. Instead of reaching for his gun as she would have expected him to do, he merely deepened the kiss and pressed his body tighter against hers, shielding her from any curious onlookers with a single, fluid motion.

And loath as she was to admit it, it worked. The group of mercenaries passed them by without bothering to interrupt, their vulgar gestures and unwarranted comments hardly more than a faint nuisance in comparison to what they  _could_ have done. What they had most certainly been ordered to do.

The stranger didn't pull away until the men had disappeared in the shadows of yet another backstreet; his breaths fast and shallow, as though he had just run a marathon, and his hands never releasing their hold on her own. Though she didn't mind  _that_  as much as she tried to make herself believe she did.

"Thank you." Her voice a mere whisper, the archaeologist swallowed and straightened.  _Gods_ , she was light-headed. "I… didn't think they'd be that quick."

He scanned her face for a moment longer before releasing her hands and taking a step backward. "How's your head?"

No apology. No remorse. Nothing beyond a faint spark deep inside those sapphire-blue eyes of his.  _Bastard._

"Better — I presume." Shifting her weight back onto her left leg, Lara crossed her arms and compressed her lips; trying her best to refrain from running her tongue over them. "My guns, …—?"

He seemed to hesitate, though moved to tug them out of his own holsters eventually. "Name's Kurtis. I thought it wiser to keep them from you for a little while. You clearly seem to have an aptitude for trouble."

She couldn't help but laugh; a sound so soft and relaxed, it almost felt out of place. "Lara. And I'm going to take  _that_  as a compliment."


	2. Obsession

**2\. OBSESSION.**

Lara was running full out now. The roaring behind her had only increased in the last few minutes before her fall; nearly deafening her as she'd tumbled to the ground, rolled, and shot for the impenetrable darkness ahead — and that soft flicker of light glinting somewhere beyond. Where it led to, whether it was an exit or just another fake passageway, she couldn't tell — or be bothered to give a damn about. Anyplace, she decided, had to be better than here. By a long shot.

Leaping over the miserable remains of a collapsed column, jaws already gritted and singing, Lara quickened her pace once more, taking the ancient, half-broken steps by twos and threes. She had to get out, and  _now_. It was only a matter of time until the roof caved in, and possibly cut her off from her newly found escape route — and ridiculous luck or no, there were only so many crumbling temples one could possibly survive. Or want to experience, for that matter.

As if on cue, the ground quivered beneath her feet. Just once, she noted with little satisfaction, but hard enough to force her back into a particularly haphazard-looking support beam; costing her a good five seconds to gather her senses, realign herself, and scan the path ahead for any loosened debris. Not ideal, for about a dozen different reasons — and entirely irritating. Not to mention that the last time she'd been off by a few moments, she'd ended up in puddle of her own blood with centuries' worth of limestone pressing onto her chest.

She didn't let the thought linger. Egypt had been different, the circumstances more…  _unfortunate_  — forcing her to go without rest for days before facing Seth in the Horus temple, and wrecking her so thoroughly she hadn't even expected to make it out alive by the end of it; nothing like the planned approach today, the anticipated outcome. Though the conditions were roughly the same —the chunks of stone and debris clattering to the ground on either side of her, the deafening roar of the crumbling temple, the adrenaline surging through her veins— her starting position wasn't. She wasn't panting or tired, and while she'd definitely have to take care of the bullet wound near her right hip soon enough, she was in no way handicapped. Not enough to give up, in any event.

Pushing past a curtain of roots and dirt, Lara muttered a string of colorful curses and stumbled onward; careful to avoid tripping over the odd obstacle or crack as she went, brows knitted and fists clenched. Nothing more than an irritating side-effect of her past experiences, she thought — the tension in her gut, the dryness of her mouth, the pounding of her heart against her ribcage. A nuisance, and definitely distracting, but… nothing she couldn't deal with.

Quite on the contrary, actually.

For even as the temple continued to crumble all around her, Lara couldn't help but grin at the speck of light at the end of the tunnel — a frenzied, wild sort of smile that transformed her face, smoothed the half-dried blood into something softer, something  _brighter_  and set her eyes alight. Here, right here, an inch away from certain death… this was where she belonged. Where she would always feel most at home.

Even more so knowing that the weight around her neck, that ruby-and-gold-pendant she'd grabbed from Kukulcan's coffin, would look absolutely  _wonderful_ next to the Dagger of Xian.


	3. 33%

**33%**

Crouched behind the scattered remains of what might have been a floor-length armoire once, Lara dipped her chin and knitted her brows. There was no more chatter reaching her from beyond her little alcove, no more scratching of boots against the damp concrete floor, and yet — she hesitated. Hesitated, because she'd gotten shot once too often today and couldn't afford Renaud's crew to know, and, she added with no small amount of displeasure, because she couldn't  _quite_ tell if his men had simply gone quiet or left the room entirely when their last conversation had ended.  _Perfect._ So much for using grenades  _indoors_.

Uncoiling to her feet in one arguably fluid motion, careful not to knock anything over as she straightened, Lara dared a quick glance past the half-rotten wood. No sign of anything being amiss — or anyone creeping through the shadows. She could still see the display on the other side of the room, that control panel blinking incessantly against the semi-darkness surrounding it, but… no mercenaries, no guards, no lasers that she would have felt comfortable identifying as such.

Just the lingering smell of dirt and fungus, mingled with the sharp tang of her own blood and the all-overpowering stench that wafted in from the vents high above. Pleasant.

Deciding to breathe through her mouth for the time being, Lara righted herself and dared a single step out of her hiding spot. The half-clotted wound at her right side sang in fresh agony at the sudden motion, the soft tugging, as she twisted and bent to duck beneath one of the lower-hanging planks — but rather than paying any heed to it, she immediately elected to ignore it completely. There was nothing she could do about it now, in any event. Perhaps she could get Zip to find out where the next sickroom was once she'd gotten past the lab — _if_  she survived that long— and stitch herself up there, but as for right this second, she had other issues to take care of.

Renaud being about half of them.

The control panel looked almost surreal up close. Bright, flickering lights stood in stark contrast to the black-and-white monitors attached to the uppermost part of it, flashing green and yellow and red as she approached. Some had hasty descriptions scrawled below them, warning of dire consequences should anyone disturb whatever process had long since been initiated, while others remained decidedly blank — though whether to deter possible intruders or because they had little to no relevance, she couldn't tell. It didn't much matter, anyway.

Either she pressed the wrong button and sent them all to hell, or she'd gain a fleeting chance at making it out alive, and, if she were particularly lucky, in roughly the same condition. Not the most promising odds, she knew, nor the most uplifting, but all she could currently be certain of. Even more so now that she'd lost her headset and weapons.

Resting her hands on either side of the panel, Lara scowled. The right side was rimmed with dozens of crimson-colored buttons, all blinking furiously as she surveyed them — and all labeled with the same phrase, written in thick, messy letters:  _ **NE PAS TOUCHER**_ **.**  A warning she gratefully understood as such, even as her hand hovered just inches above the first button; ready to press down any second, no matter the possible outcome, just to see what  _might_ happen. At least until her eyes fell on the small screen directly below, the dent in the panel, and the monitor above.  _D_ _écodage en cours_ , it said, and below that…  **33% complet**.

Her hand froze in midair.

_Oh, shit._

This wasn't good.

Far from it, really.

And yet she barely had the time to consider just  _how_  badly she'd messed up as the doors behind her burst open, and the combined  _click_ 's of a dozen or so SMGs brought her back to reality.


	4. Bergamot

**BERGAMOT**

It was early. Much too early to be awake and working, in any event.

Not that she'd actually gotten that far in the first place — or even had the chance to  _consider_  it.

Dressed in a black satin dressing gown, Lara Croft sauntered through the lengthy corridors leading from her personal suite to Croft Manor's great entrance hall, brows furrowed and fists clenched on either side of her body. Though she'd heard the clamor long before she'd deigned to find the source, it had only increased in volume during the past four minutes; building up to a crescendo so beyond everything she'd be willing to ignore that she'd briefly wondered whether Zip had finally lost his mind.  _If_  he'd had one to begin with. Which, frankly, was debatable.

She didn't bother with dignified restraint. Even as she stormed through the last door and onto the first-floor-balcony overlooking the main hall, her teeth were gritted and her jaws grinding, ready to pounce, to wring Zip's scrawny little neck for throwing her out of bed at six in the gods-damned morning and—…

The second she saw what had happened, every thought went straight out of her head.

The entire foyer, from the grand entrance to the glass-paneled office space in the far back and the lowermost staircase, was covered in snow. Heaps and heaps of it glistened in the sparse light wafting in from the great windows to either side of the room,  _sparkling_ , almost, as she blinked, stopped, and frowned at it — that mass of bright, untainted white, reflecting the light almost as  _real_  snow would. Hell; she wasn't even sure she  _could_  have spotted the difference had she not seen the snow machine blasting out snowflakes in glittering bunches, filling the entirety of the room with white fluff while Zip kneeled just beside it, adjusting some screw or another.  _Grinning_.

And there, not five feet away from him, stood Winston — a snow shovel in hand, ready to tackle the exorbitant amount of…  _whatever_  it was, while dressed in a thick coat, scarf, and gloves. Perhaps she would have told him not to bother, that she would take care of it once she got done throttling Zip, but… there was something about the way he surveyed the room, the  _snow_ ; that soft spark of determination in his eyes. Interesting, she found, though slightly unsettling.

Before she could do so much as state her discomfort at the situation, the pure  _bizarreness_  of it, though, she felt a gentle tug at her shoulder — and felt her own lips tug upward at the lingering scent of coffee and hazelnut that penetrated her nose almost instantly. "Weird guy, that one," Kurtis said as way of greeting, his voice raw and chocked — as if he were trying his best not to laugh. She shared the sentiment. "Seems to like christmas a 'lil  _too much_ , wouldn't ya say?"

Well, she couldn't exactly  _disagree_ ; though she wished to god she  _could_  have. Not only would it take hours upon hours to clean up the mess he'd left behind, getting that rutting machine  _out_ …

But then again, this was exactly  _why_  she kept her artifacts well away from Zip.

"He never ceases to surprise me," Lara replied then, gathering a handful of 'snow' in her palm — and scowled. It  _felt_  like snow too, even despite lacking the coldness she would have expected, but… "Does this smell like bergamot to you?"

Before he could so much as open his mouth to reply, a snowball hit her flat in the face — and she could have sworn she heard Winston laugh near hysterically as she tried, and  _failed_ , to wipe the mixture off her face.


	5. Colors

_You_ _'_ _re dripping like a saturated sunrise_ _,_

_You_ _'_ _re spilling like an overflowing sink_ _._

_You_ _'_ _re ripped at every edge but you_ _'_ _re a masterpiece_ _,_

_And now i_ _'_ _m tearing through the pages and the ink_ _…_

Lara Croft had never taken kindly to being followed — but while she could still very much  _feel_  his presence at her back, his body always  _just_ out of reach,  _just_  that extra step behind, she didn't bother reprimanding him. Didn't even  **acknowledge**  his gaze, his suit, or that mischievous smirk that had been adorning his face from the moment he'd first seen her in this godawful dress; wearing  _his_  necklace,  _his_ gods-damned heirloom, around her neck.

A single, golden rose — dangling from a flimsy-looking chain, its uppermost petal shaped to accommodate not one but  _two_  blindingly clear crystals. A gaudy pendant in every sense of the word, but the work of a true artist nonetheless.  _That_  much she could admit. Even if some small part of her still wanted to chuck it straight at his face.

Twirling her flute between two fingers as she monitored the far end of the room, Lara loosed a tight breath. Tonight — it would all end tonight. The lying, the running, the jumping-at-every-shadow… that constant, harsh pounding in her head that no painkiller could have ever eased or even made somewhat more  _tolerable_. One more evening of hiding; and then she could return to her life, to the books already piling up on her desk. To that burial mask that had caught her attention last month at the Louvre, back when she'd barely had the time to catch her breath — let alone study an artifact.

Six weeks of running, all leading up to this: A rather unconventional party thrown by someone she hardly recognized, attended by what she could only assume were either relatives of deceased Lux Veritatis warriors or confidants of some sort — people who had once helped the remaining fighters and their families  _disappear_  like dew in the morning sun, concealing them beneath false identities and new faces, new stories, new  _lives_.

Every single one of them. Everyone…  _but him._

Lara didn't need to look up to know he had finally stopped hovering in her shadow. Even if that last blast in the Vaults  _had_  blended her, she would have known that scent anywhere — that faint bouquet of peppermint and honey that had enveloped her the whole way from the catacombs back to the mouth of the cave. The scent that had led her back here, back from… wherever she'd been.

And the only one she  _couldn't_  seem to shake.

"Enjoying yourself?" His voice as raw and sensual as ever, Kurtis braced his arm against the bar. "Or are you going to keep scowling at everyone until someone asks you to leave?"

A huff her only immediate response, Lara rested her glass on one of the tables and turned to face him more fully; his eyes so vibrantly blue as they took her in, even her gods-damned dress seemed to pale in comparison. Not that there had been anything special about it either way, save for the plunging neckline and the open back — but a downright waste nonetheless. Even  _if_  she'd contemplated ripping the damn thing right off and tossing it down the next best garbage chute more than once in the past two hours.

Then again, at least she looked somewhat more  _alive_  in it. Elegant, almost — graceful in the way all wild things were.

Which didn't necessarily make her any  **less**  annoyed.

"I wouldn't bother — half of them don't even seem to be quite…  _here_." Inclining her chin toward a particularly feeble old man, Lara raised a challenging brow. "Besides, my plane leaves in five hours. This is nothing more than a social visit."

His answering smirk was nothing short of infuriating. "Should we be  _honored_ , then? To have Lara Croft — _the_  Lara Croft— deign to spend an entire evening in our presence?"

Lara swallowed the first response that came to mind, which was that he should feel  _honored_  she hadn't punched his gods-damned teeth down his throat yet, and offered a slow smile instead. Heaven knew  _that_ hadn't been easy.

"I do visit the zoo more often than you'd think," she drawled, one corner of her mouth slowly starting to tug upward. "One more  _chimp_  won't make a difference."

The amused smile he gave almost seemed to transform his face. Where she'd known his features to be rough,  _unrelenting_ , he suddenly looked younger; as if defeating Karel, defeating the  _Cabal_ , had patched more than a few old wounds. Perhaps made him less… bitter.

Just another thing they disagreed on, she figured: Letting go of past grudges. Where he would forgive every now and then and only sought vengeance when he deemed it worth the trouble, she would never turn the other cheek — would never give anyone the opportunity to  _forget_  how cold she could be. How dangerous.

"For what it's worth," he cleared his throat, eyes narrowing as though he'd listened in on her thoughts. Perhaps he had. "At least I've finally gotten to see what you look like beneath all that dirt and grime. Though I must admit, I pictured you… differently."

 _Yeah, right._ Offering the same simpering smile she knew could drive him up the wall in seconds, Lara only loosed a mild laugh and took a step back; the humor in her eyes so dry, so  _fickle_ , she briefly wondered if he even noticed it among the lingering disdain. "Touché, Mister Trent."

Surprisingly enough, his only response was a lazy tug of his lips — that spark in his eyes never fully dulling, never dimming. And though she cursed herself for it… she couldn't help but bristle at  _that_. Couldn't help but hate him a little  _more_  for it.

"I didn't mean to offend." Grinding her teeth at the thinly veiled laughter in his voice, Lara tore her gaze from him.  **Crook**. Insufferable, cocky— "In fact, I was sure you'd show up in a leather jacket, colts drawn, and scare the living hell out of these people."

She couldn't entirely help her scoff. "What makes you think I am  _unarmed_?"

Of course, she knew the dress didn't leave  _much_  to the imagination. With the way it clung to her hips and pooled at her feet, the fabric so light it had almost felt like water running through her fingers, her choice of weaponry had certainly been limited enough; forcing her to leave behind most of her firearms and opt for smaller, finer throwing knives instead. Not her favorite weapons by any means, but good enough. For today's objectives, at least.

Besides, should there be any more  _surprises_  tonight, there was always the option of hand-to-hand combat; and heaven knew there was nothing more viscerally satisfying than punching someone square in the face. Even more so if it involved the imminent threat of death.

"Never said you weren't," Kurtis mumbled next to her, his gaze lingering for a second longer. "But at least you don't look like death incarnate tonight. Might have given my aunt a heart attack."

She didn't doubt  **that**  — the woman looked close to 90, and had introduced herself eight times in the past two hours. Hell, if Lara were being totally candid, she'd been close to calling an ambulance more often than she deigned to admit. "What is it you  _want_ , Trent? I don't have the patience to play juvenile games."

For a moment, it seemed like he was about to turn away. The light in his eyes guttered, the humor dancing around his lips vanished, and… she could have  **sworn**  his gaze kept slipping back to the necklace he'd made her wear, the golden rose she'd grudgingly agreed to don.

 _Just tonight_ , he'd said.  _Consider it a favor_.

"It's not something I want to discuss… here." In public, he didn't need to add. That look in his eyes was clear enough: honesty and invitation, calm and…  _hunger_. The same look, she realized, he'd given her that night in the Louvre — the same cluster of emotions whirring to life as he offered his arm and gave that cocky grin of his.

The one that, for a moment, had made her all but forget about Werner and the Cabal and the Lux Veritatis, the one that had cost her more than just her  _pride._  He'd left her disarmed in more ways than one that night, and he'd known it. Had  **celebrated**  it.

Until he'd been knocked unconscious.  _She'd_  certainly celebrated  **that**.

Tonight, on the other hand…

No more ghosts — no more jumping at shadows. And though the party had its very own  _appeal_ , no more nights spent in the company of people she had no intention of ever seeing again, either. She didn't doubt for one second that Kurtis was well aware of it, too; that the slight shift in his eyes had nothing to do with the pendant he'd given her, but the words he knew not to speak.

Still, Lara accepted his arm without so much as a backward glance. Better judgement or no, they'd been down this road often enough that one more time, one more  _ **night**_ , wouldn't make much of a difference. If any at all.

"Five hours," was all Lara said as he led her past a throng of people, one hand squeezing his elbow. "Not a second longer."

His answering nod wasn't as reassuring as she might have anticipated, but he upheld the façade well enough. "Don't worry your pretty little head about  _that_." At her silent bristling, he offered another smirk. "I'll drive you to the airport myself, if that's what you're worried about."

It wasn't. Not that she felt like explaining herself to him — to  _anyone_.

"Funny." Taking a casual step away from him as they neared the elevator, Lara turned to face the warrior once more. "I'm not changing my mind about this, Trent."

He offered a smile — though it didn't  _quite_  reach his eyes this time. "I know."

Lara didn't bother analyzing the defeat in his tone. Whatever he might have thought their relationship was, what it  _had been_ … she'd been clear enough about her own intentions from the start, and hardly felt like repeating herself now. Nor  **ever**.

He'd known; he'd walked into this with his arms wide open and his brain on standby. A thousand explanations wouldn't have sufficed with that kind of premise.

And yet — as she followed him into the elevator and, moments later, to his room, she wasn't entirely sure she actually believed that. Throughout the past month, there had hardly been a time when he hadn't been prepared for the worst, when he  _hadn't_  been sure of what his purpose was and how to achieve his ends. She'd even gone as far as  _ **envy**_  him for it. This… this wasn't  _ **him**_.

Then again, she supposed that last fight had left them both on uneven footing.

_Everything is blue,_

_And now I'm covered in the colors, pulled apart at the seams._

_You were a vision in the morning, when the light came through_

_I know I've only felt religion when I've lied with you—…_

"You're welcome to keep the necklace." His words were barely more than a whisper of air against her neck — followed by a kiss so taunting, so infuriatingly  _light_ , she almost cursed him out for it. "It suits you."

 _Oaf_. "You couldn't possibly tell if it did."

"Could anyone?"

Though she itched to spill his throat on the ground for his tone alone, Lara reined in her anger. Greater implications aside, it was just like him to test her resolve; to see if the line she'd drawn held fast. If he could change her mind.

_Fat chance, that._

"Don't flatter yourself." Waving him off with little more than a halfhearted gesture, Lara sidled out of reach. If there was one thing she'd learned about him, one  _trick_  she had absolutely no interest in falling for, it was this — that slight, self-satisfied bravado he displayed whenever his charm alone failed. "I'll message you once I've hidden the last Obscura Painting. After that…" She trailed off, watching as he loosened his tie. "You'll go back to your life — I'll go back to mine."

No room for argument; no uncertainty in her tone. Whatever this  _relationship_  had been, whatever he'd thought it might become, it had to end here. Now.

Although she certainly couldn't deny that his hands on her waist made thinking entirely  _difficult_.

"The Antarctic — was that it?" he murmured, tracing the length of the zipper from her waist to her chest. "If you need help—…"

"I don't."

His answering smile was nearly enough to make her reconsider  _gutting_  him. "I was going to suggest you take the sword."

"Your heirloom?" Though her mind —and fingers— had already begun drifting, Lara loosed a mild laugh. "As far as I can recall, that thing caused us more trouble than it was worth."

And  _then some._  From its sheer size to how little of that Lux Veritatis power it had retained over the centuries, the sword had hardly been anything more than a nuisance during their track through the mountains. So much so, in fact, that she'd been rather tempted to leave it in the Vaults — or, preferably, chuck it into the nearest ocean the second Kurtis's back was turned.

The only thing that had kept her from doing either, well… she supposed  _that_  was something she would have to mull over at another time.

"It's supposed to ward off evil." That didn't seem particularly true, but she stilled nonetheless. Whether at the hint of teasing in his voice or the kisses he began scattering along the side of her neck, though, she wasn't entirely sure. "Protect its wielder from enemy forces."

Lara couldn't help but scoff at that — even as her hands tangled in his hair, pulled at his shirt. "It didn't protect me from Karel."

"Perhaps it considered you an enemy force."

"Ah." Stepping out of her shoes as he went about unzipping her dress, one hand always resting at the dip of her waist, Lara smirked. "So you're sending me to the end of the world with a sword that views me as its enemy. How  _poetic_."

He shrugged. "You stood your ground well enough last week."

True; if only in the sense that she'd  _survived_. He'd still wound up pulling over a hundred pieces of shrapnel and debris out of her skin, healing each wound as he'd went, and had very nonchalantly offered to throw her over his shoulder when she'd struggled to rise. Quite frankly, her pride  _still_  hadn't recovered.

And yet… as he continued to nip at her skin, as she  _melted_  into his touch and allowed him to guide her further into the room, she almost wondered if any part of that statement was true. If she could ever open up to him and  **regret**  it.

The thought still haunted her as his lips met hers.

It wasn't the heated kiss he'd given her in Germany, nor the heartbreakingly soft one they'd shared in Cappadocia. There was a certain gentleness to it, an  _uncertainty_ , as well as a hint of laziness — as though he were trying to burn the feel and smell and taste of her into his mind, into his  **heart**. And for the first time in years, she had no objections.

Perhaps there was no future for them. Perhaps their past had been peppered with mistakes and demons and angel-hybrids that had just about drained her of her energy and made her curse him out for things he had no control over; but for now, for  _today_ … she could relish this. Luxuriate in every part of him.

"And what, exactly, do you suggest I do with your sword?" Tearing the front of his shirt just as he went about sliding the dress from her shoulders, Lara smirked. "Wear it like a hat?"

His laughter reverberated through her skin, her bones. "Strap it to your backpack. Or your bike."

"Sounds more like a safety hazard to me."

Instead of answering, Kurtis looped one foot behind her ankles and pulled back — grinning as she landed smack on top of his unmade bed. Even more so as she growled her disapproval.

"Perhaps I'll give you the periapt shards, then," he mumbled, kicking off his shoes. "Unless, of course, you already got them tucked away somewhere."

Lara barely managed to make it a full minute before pulling him down and  _twisting_ — flipping him onto his back and locking him into place with her hips. There had been enough time for mindless teasing; enough time to prove their points. Enough time  _ **wasted**_.

And she wasn't about to make the same mistake again.


	6. Breakfast

Her feet near-silent against the tiled floor, Lara stepped onto the walled-off office space at the back of the entrance hall. There had been no further signs of a security breach, no intruders to speak of, and sure as hell no other disturbance she might have thought to deal with  _before_  her first cup of tea — not to mention any indication of a real threat in the vicinity. Human or otherwise.

Quite frankly, she'd had half a mind to dump the contents of her mug onto Zip's entire setup before she'd even  **entered**  his space.

She had quite a lot  _more_  after making her way through bits of scrap metal and what she  _hoped_  was spilled milk. For  **his**  sake.

"I thought I paid you to do proper  _work_ ," Lara said by way of greeting, the muscle she'd felt twitching in her jaw earlier barking with the restraint it took not to  _explode_. Not to rip out his hair piece by bloody piece. "Not to wake me up in the dead of night for no reason at all."

To his credit, the self-proclaimed genius barely flinched. "Someone, or - _thing_  triggered the motion sensors," he offered, leaning back in his chair as she made her way through his maze of tools and rotten food. "No idea where they went, but they were there. Somewhere. Who knows why."

"You were still awake." Not a question — not when he looked about as tired as she  _felt_ , and hadn't bothered to change his clothes since she'd last seen him. Or shower, from the smell of it.

"Fixing  _your_  equipment."

Lara wasn't sure why he felt the need to justify his sleep schedule to her — for all intents and purposes, he  _was_  entitled to make his own decisions — but offered a slight glare nonetheless. Lunatic or not, he had a point. She'd certainly managed to destroy her PDA the last time she'd accidentally thrown it down a ravine, and with the amount of water still lodged inside her  _boots_  … she highly doubted her modified .45s had made it out in better condition. Least of all considering how  **deep**  she'd went.

Still not a good enough reason to throw her out of bed at four in the morning. "Anything on the cameras?"

"Not so far." Interpreting his vague gesture as a general offer to sit anywhere she felt most comfortable, Lara crossed to the left side of the room — dodging just about as much garbage and debris as she could stomach to look at this early in the day. Without dumping it on Zip's head, anyway. "Although your book's gone missing. I don't assume you took it upstairs last night?"

She hadn't. But … "It's not much of an antiquity."

His answering shrug nearly made her claw his eyes out with her bare hands, but she forced herself to sit down on the small stairs leading up to what used to be a ballroom anyway. There was no use in losing him before he'd finished fixing her  _weapons_.

"Perhaps whoever took it just  _really_  had it out for Olympias."

Not much of a leap, historically speaking. For all her intelligence, Olympias had certainly managed to infuriate entire clans of people during her reign — and arguably more once she'd fled back to Epirus, orchestrating her husband's death from the safety of her kin's home. But she highly doubted that had been the case  _here_.

Even  **she**  wouldn't hold a grudge for over two thousand years.

"Are you sure that's all of it?" Stretching out her legs as far as possible, Lara glanced at the empty room beyond the glass-paneled wall. Within the time it had taken her to wake up, grab the back-up revolver she'd hidden in her bedpost and race downstairs, she hadn't heard so much as a  _whisper_  of motion. Let alone a proper break-in. "They could have bought the book online. Stolen it there, even. Why take it from  _here_?"

Not that she cared. As long as it was all they'd taken, she couldn't be bothered to waste a single thought on retrieving it.

"Winston mentioned breakfast," Zip murmured after a long moment, finally lifting his stare from the screen in front of him. "Beans and toast, although it smells more like throw-up."

Lara couldn't entirely help her smirk. "To a Yankee, maybe."


	7. Rivalry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These days, I'm working on making my writing a tad clearer and more enjoyable to read. I would be overjoyed to receive some feedback!

* * *

 

Werner’s apartment was just as she remembered it. Heavy carpets strewn about at odd angles to draw interest away from his files, books covering every available surface and windowsill, dark paintings hung on yellowed wallpaper. A couple of magazines tossed into the mix. No personal items safe for a few pictures.

The only major difference that she could spot from her perch on his armchair, hidden behind a plant that could either be fake or real depending on his current state of mind, was the security system. Glaringly new and exuding an air of modern invention, it looked about as out of place as a croc in a barber shop. Literally. Lara highly doubted the old lunatic even knew how to program the thing.  
  
Not that she was judging. Neither did she.

What she _could_ do, however, was eliminate anyone stupid enough to break into her home. Something Werner either wasn’t capable of – wheelchair or no, his injury _had_ put him at a general disadvantage over the years – or had very little interest in. Hence the fear, she supposed.

Frankly, Lara thought it all nonsense. The odds of Von Croy going after an artifact on his own were exceedingly low to begin with; she simply couldn’t see him taking on an entire cabal of über-religious nuts for a measly payout.

Even Werner wouldn’t be _that_  stupid.

“Go on.” Her tone, though clearly lacking patience, was toeing the line between pissy and downright aggressive. Withdrawal, maybe? She hadn’t had a glass in hours.

“I’m tracking five Obscura Paintings for a client called _Eckhardt_ ,” Werner pushed, leaning forward in his chair. Almost as though he were considering to reach out again, emotionally or physically, and draw her back into whatever issues he may have gotten caught up in. Lara fought the urge to roll her eyes. “But he’s a psychopath.”

Funny — the last time she’d seen him, he’d called her something eerily similar. “Why should I care?”

To be entirely honest, she didn’t. Didn’t even care about the new security system he’d installed, the way his voice jittered when he spoke, or the faint trace of blue shadowing his lower eyelids. About anything at all.

Dying, she’d found, had that kind of effect on people.

“Because I’m being stalked!” Surprisingly animated now, Werner leapt straight out of his chair — bad leg all but forgotten as he gestured toward the window, the bookcases, her. Lara only gave him a quirk of the brow. “People are _dying_ out there.”

He said it as though it should spark something in her. Pity? Remorse? Whatever he was trying to get at, whatever twisted logic he was about to impart, she had a feeling it wasn’t nearly as interesting as the dissertation on roman mass burial sites sitting on her desk back home. Or watching paint dry.

Her mentor had always had a knack for theatrics. “Handle it, Werner.”

She rose then, readying to leave — but was unceremoniously held up with a hand to her upper sternum. A hand, she mused with no small amount of aggression oozing off her, that she had very little issue cutting into _teeny-tiny_ pieces if he didn’t remove it within the next fifty-two seconds.

“Lara, _please_.” Either sensing her mood or, perhaps, not wanting to waste any more time on trivial banter, Werner retreated; slowly now, as though remembering he usually needed a cane to walk. Lara only watched as he hobbled back over to her. “Look.”

She didn’t so much as move. Didn’t do anything beyond grinding her teeth as he reached for her wrist and shoved a small, crumbled-up piece of paper into her palm. Did he have _no_ sense of mortality left in his walnut-sized brain?

“See this woman — _Carvier_ ,” Werner begged, barely noticing her tensed shoulders and set jaws. “She can help.”

Lara highly doubted it, but didn’t bother arguing. Whether it was hunting for artifacts in Cambodia or driving himself insane in his own badly-lit living room, once Von Croy’s mind was made up, there was no changing it. She may as well have argued with a pidgeon.

Or his fake-not-fake-potted-plant, for that matter.

“I’m going.” Stuffing the paper into her pocket with just about as much bravado as she could summon up at eleven thirty in the evening, Lara turned to leave once more — and barely missed being held back again. This time, though, she was faster.

And arguably more pissed off.

Ducking his hand in a single, fluid motion, Lara grasped the old man’s shoulders and shoved him backwards; right into the godawful armchair she’d just vacated. Two more steps forward had her leaning in, both hands braced on the gaudy silk-polyester-mix, and her face mere inches from his — likely looking about as rattled as she felt. “Egypt, Werner. You walked away and _left me_.”

Perhaps not the best phrasing –she _really_ needed that scotch– but a clear enough statement nonetheless. Since it had taken him two weeks to organize anything _akin_ to a rescue party, it would take her three times as long to decide whether she wanted to pursue another one of his dead-ends. _Ever again._

If he felt he was being unfairly targeted, then so be it. Far was it from her to give a damn.

In retrospect, perhaps _that_ was the reason why she never saw him draw a gun.


End file.
